


Defiled

by damesansmerci



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dark, Fingerfucking, Forced Orgasm, Frottage, Fuck Or Die, Hurt No Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Moriarty Made Them Do It, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Virgin Sherlock, Virginity, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damesansmerci/pseuds/damesansmerci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You,” Moriarty mused, tucking his hands comfortably into his pockets. “Are going to go in there and rape Sherlock. And you’re not going to say a single word while you do it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defiled

**Author's Note:**

> For a forced rape kink meme prompt. Please make sure you've read all the warnings.

“I don’t understand,” John said, folding his arms across his chest. “What is it that you want me to do? And whatever it is—what the hell makes you think I’ll do it?”

“You,” Moriarty mused, tucking his hands comfortably into his pockets. “Are going to go in there and rape Sherlock. And you’re not going to say a single word while you do it.”

It was so matter-of-factly said, it took John a minute to process it. His face twisted in shock, but he soon gained control of himself, his expression slipping into a hard mask of derision. “Er, right. And what do you think would possibly make me do that?” 

Sebastian, loyal as always, cocked a gun pointedly in John’s direction, but John was hardly fazed.

“Alright, fine, kill me,” he said, with an exaggeratedly nonchalant shrug. “Go on.”

Moriarty shook his head. “Oh no, I think not,” he said, with his silky little laugh. His eyes were deep and dead in the dimming light. “You’ve rather shown your hand already, haven’t you, Dr. Watson?”

“I don’t—“

“Let us put it this way, shall we?” Moriarty said, clearly wallowing in the sordidness of it all. “You will do it, John—Or my dearest Sebastian will. And let me warn you—he’s hardly a gentle lover, are you darling?”

Sebastian said nothing. But John shuddered at the very look of him, hulking and cold. Moriarty waited, letting the thought sink in. The idea of that heavy body, smothering Sherlock’s slim limbs, those large hands, cutting off his air and pinning him to the ground, naked and exposed, as he struggled helplessly.

“Well, don’t look so upset, “ Moriarty chided gently. “After all, I’m doing you a favor.” John did not look up, his teeth gritted as he thought up any number of escape plans and discarded them all. But Moriarty continued anyways, secure in the knowledge that, despite all appearances, the doctor was listening very carefully. 

“Doesn’t every pet want to fuck it’s master, John?” he asked gently. He could see by the way John licked his lips and turned his head away that he had been right, shot in the dark though it had been. 

“What makes you think you’re any different?”

…

Sherlock lay sprawled on the couch in his silk dressing gown, his hands steepled beneath his chin, and his eyes closed. He did not look up when the door cracked open or when John entered, his footsteps heavy and dragging.

“Bad day at work?” was all he said, cracking his eyes open just a sliver. “You can make tea. It will make you feel better and I wouldn’t be averse to a cup myself.” 

Normally, John would have sighed and stormed off to the kitchen, feigning annoyance at Sherlock’s high and mighty ways. But today he merely hung up his coat, delaying the inevitable as long as possible. He straightened the jacket, making sure it hung perfectly upon the rack, carefully took off his shoes.

Sherlock craned his neck over to look at him. “Why are you doing that? You’re upset—but you’re avoiding something. What are you avoiding?”

There was a desperate part of John that hoped Sherlock would figure it out . But he couldn’t let him, much as he wanted him to. Moriarty had them on camera, of course, and Sebastian lurked just outside, waiting to rush in at the first sign of trouble. No, John would have to do this. And he would have to do it well. 

He squared his shoulders and marched over to the couch. Sherlock flicked his eyes over John’s body, clearly confused. “If this is about the head,” he began carefully. “I assure you that I—“

Whatever he might have said, whether it was insincere promises or haughty commentary, was cut off as John pressed a hand to his mouth, halting all sound. Sherlock’s beautiful lips were soft under his palm and he froze at the inexorable touch, the confusion deepening across his face.

He mumbled something against the skin, something that sounding placating and bewildered at the same time and John was sickeningly glad he didn’t have to hear it. He slid the hand off and held it to Sherlock’s chest instead, pushing him down until he sank into the cushions. His other hand went up to briefly caress Sherlock’s cheek, futile though the gesture was at this point. 

“Relax,” he mouthed, taking a chance. And it was heartbreaking to see how Sherlock trusted him, even now. He sagged into the couch immediately, though his eyes remained fixed questioningly on John’s face. 

John hadn’t believed in a God for years, but now he found himself praying to any and every deity he had ever heard of. Please let someone come, he thought desperately. Someone, Lestrade, Mycroft, surely someone will stop this madness. 

The thought occurred to him that, maybe, if he prolonged it long enough, they would. He went back to touching Sherlock’s face, tracing the sharp edges of his cheekbone, the soft, plush pillow of his lips. 

“John, what are you doing?” Sherlock demanded. He struggled up onto his elbows, but John heard it then. The soft thump outside their door, the one that was a threat and a sordid promise in one. Quickly he leaned down and covered Sherlock’s lips with his own. To his surprise, Sherlock didn’t immediately throw him off. He let John nudge his way past his lips, even tentatively touched his own tongue to John’s teeth, before he drew back, something akin to concern on his face.

“I don’t understand. Did you finally break up with the teacher, John?” Sherlock asked. “Or was it the dentist now, I can hardly keep them straight.”

His tone was light, almost purposefully so, but his eyes asked a question that John was incapable of answering. There was a longing there that, if only John had known—but the question was moot and they were long passed that.

And no one was coming. He knew that. He’d been a soldier and he had to face the grim reality: there was no one who knew and no one who would be able to make it in time. 

He bent down again, his mouth closing over Sherlock’s, offering him a distraction. It was worse, in a way, pretending that this was meant to be consensual. He’d be better off creating a distance, making this quick and dirty. But he had a half-baked idea that maybe, if he played his cards right, Sherlock wouldn’t protest. Maybe, he’d go along to the end, trusting John to take care of him. 

Sherlock yielded to him, sighing softly into his mouth. His hand cupped John’s neck, his kisses endearingly fumbling and innocent. John’s hand trembled as it descended on Sherlock’s thigh, sliding his gown up until it pooled about his waist. He was still wearing his pajama bottoms under it. But when John reached for them, Sherlock broke away again.

“Isn’t this rather sudden, John?” he asked uncertainly. “I don’t think—“

John looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. He had never known Sherlock Holmes to be uncertain before and, if it spoke of the inexperience he suspected it did, then, then—But John couldn’t think of it. Not now. Not until later.

Swallowing his disgust, John merely shook his head and hastily tugged Sherlock’s bottoms down, until they caught about his ankles. He wasn’t wearing any pants and his cock, long and framed by curling dark hair, was still soft. John cupped it gently and Sherlock arched, gasping, into his hand. His long fingers scrabbled uselessly against the couch, but John caught them up and stilled them. 

Moriarty, prepared as always, had tossed him a small bottle of lube as he exited. “You might need this,” he’d said. “I prefer fast and dirty myself. But after all, this is rather a special time for Sherlock, isn’t it? Finally growing up, our little detective.”

And John had tried very hard not to think about what that might mean. 

But it was clear, as he tucked his slippery fingers behind Sherlock’s balls, that Sherlock was absolutely terrified. “John,” he said, craning his neck about. “This has gone far enough. Perhaps we ought to consider that tea—“ His voice broke off in a sharp gasp as John pushed one finger slowly into his little hole and twisted. 

God, that was tight. And Sherlock squirmed against the intrusion, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he babbled. John crooked his finger and Sherlock moaned again, tossing one arm over his eyes. “John, please,” he begged. “I’ve never—“

There was no running from it now. Sherlock had never done this and John, the one man he trusted, even now, was about to brutalize him. _In another time_ , John thought miserably, _I’d have made this so good for you. I’d have kissed you and held you and god, Sherlock, do you even know what you do to me? Will you ever know, now?_

Because it was shameful, but Moriarty was right. John would give half the world to have Sherlock as his, to fuck him slowly and sweetly until he surrendered himself completely. And it was a master stroke, this, for this would tear the two of them apart far better than anything Moriarty himself could do

Sherlock was whimpering openly. But John determinedly held him down and he ground against John’s fingers, two of them now, twisting and stretching. He was fucking himself on them with his eyes closed, his mouth slack and grim, his cheeks and chest flushed a dull crimson. His cock was still mostly soft though and John could hear the mumbled, “No” and “Please” and God help him, he couldn’t take it anymore. He slid his hand under Sherlock and flipped him over, so that he didn’t have to see his face. 

But Sherlock was openly struggling by now and it took all of John’s strength to flip him and hold him down, his entire weight pressing against Sherlock’s back to keep him still. 

“I am sure we can talk about this, John,” Sherlock said, his voice cracking on the words. Sherlock’s thin shoulders trembled under him and John didn’t know how he was going to do it, hold Sherlock down and fuck him at the same time, but then Sherlock sighed and sank pliantly into the cushion. He spread his legs, one hanging off the side of the couch, the other tucked into its very crevice, leaving his buttocks open and exposed to the cold air. His dressing gown was still raked up to his chest, but save for that, he was fully naked and vulnerable.

Moriarty was probably enjoying this, seeing Sherlock so on display. But John wanted nothing more than to cover him, to cry and apologize and promise they didn’t have to do anything Sherlock wasn’t comfortable with, didn’t have to do anything at all really. 

_I love you_ , he wanted to mouth, but Sherlock couldn’t see him and he wouldn’t give Moriarty the satisfaction. 

“Go on,” Sherlock said, interrupting his thoughts, and it sounded like it was spat through gritted teeth. “Get it over with John. Defile me, if you wish it. I cannot deny that I have thought--- sometimes—but is hardly matters—“ He was merely talking and John was no longer listening to his precise words. All he could hear was the crackling despair in Sherlock’s words, the hitch of his breath on the last syllables, as he let go of a hope John had never even suspected him off. ‘

The quicker he did it, the quicker this could be over. Sherlock was still completely exposed, his arse taut and round and tempting. John stripped off his trousers, nauseated as he realized he was half-hard and had been for quite some time. 

Sherlock’s limbs were loose as John climbed in behind him, pushing his legs still further apart. John spread Sherlock’s cheeks and looked at his dusky hole, slick and clenching, and Sherlock buried his head in his hands, still shaking. So much trust and John didn’t deserve it, any of it. He rubbed himself twice, fucking his fist until he was hard and sickened in one fell swoop. 

Then he guided himself between Sherlock’s buttocks. Sherlock tensed again when he felt John’s prick rubbing up against his fluttering, tense, hole, but John massaged his cheeks and lower back, willing him to relax. It would hurt less if he was and Sherlock apparently realized that, for he gave up altogether, rendering his body absolutely pliable in John’s hands. 

John sank in, as slowly as he could, but Sherlock didn’t do more than grunt. It had to have been painful, but he said nothing, not as John fucked him and kissed every inch of him he could reach, as if it might help. 

But there was one more part to this, for Moriarty was truly determined to see it through to the last. John reached underneath Sherlock, trapping his hand in between the couch and Sherlock’s heavy hips. He massaged Sherlock’s cock, fondling and teasing until it filled out and grew hard in his hand. 

Sherlock said nothing. John rubbed him roughly, for endless minutes, until, finally, Sherlock tensed and came all over his hand, his come soaking into the cushions. And then John fucked him fast and hard until he came too, wrapped in the silky, searing heat of Sherlock’s core. 

John’s hand shook as he pulled himself out. Come seeped out from between Sherlock’s cheeks and dripped down the backs of his legs, defiling his pale, perfect skin. He was still as a statue as John climbed off of him and tugged on his trousers, after cleaning himself ineffectually with his discarded pants.. He spread Sherlock once more with both hands, checking for carefully for bleeding in the little time he had left. But he was unharmed, at least there. He shifted his face to the side and John caught sight of his sharp cheeks, glittering with tears. 

John bit his lip, holding back the tears that threatened to spill down his own cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed. 

But Sherlock’s eyes were clenched too tightly closed to see him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Forgiven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2496977) by [Lo221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lo221B/pseuds/Lo221B)




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